Ooo-ee, I need to get to writing these before I'm so spent, but after using up a whole day in the office piecing together disparate, woozy sentiments with transitions and inflicting oxford commas on unsuspecting sentences, I haven't a fucking clue what to say. And so I put it off as long as possible and indulge in irregularity.
Let's see what we can scrounge up from the old treasure house of childhood.
It's late and I can hear the crickets. It's a sound so regular it's strange to me now to think I ever lived anywhere you couldn't. But in Berkeley and in New York and even, come to think of it, for much of the time I was in Virginia, I don't recall hearing them, all those bachelor crickets scraping their wings together to call up the hunnies. It's just what night sounds like year-round in Miami.
As a kid in the summer, if my sisters and my cousins behaved, Luzmila would promise to take us out real early. We'd have to go to bed at what was for us some ridiculously premature hour, it was like an insult, but then she'd wake us at four-thirty so we could be at the park by five. The fog would be hanging just over the dewy grass and an eerie stillness had settled in that felt mystical. Somewhere in sleep the crickets had stopped their singing, and the birds hadn't started. Neither the joggers nor the folks from the city had done their rounds. It wasn't uncommon for the dog to run off ahead to sniff out something that had died in the night.